The Great Wide Somewhere
by trufflemores
Summary: Another entry in my "The Black Flash's Daughter" series. Nora decides to visit her father, in the flesh. The Black Flash, who has raised her since childhood, has conflicted feelings about it.


**Author's Notes:** Hello, everybody! I haven't updated my ffnet page in a while, so these fics are long overdue. I hope you enjoy them! (If you want to stay up to date with my stories, I always upload them to AO3 first.)

November 1, 2049

Today is the last day.

Nora makes the arrangements. She settles her ledger with the CCPD, wrapping up case files and leaving notes behind for her partner Jakiah and Captain Alex Thorne. Her living quarters have already been gutted, her lease turned in. She knows that upon her return, Papa Joe and Nana Cecile will let her stay with them while she searches for a new apartment. Never one to overlook family, she endows Kenai to Don's dutiful care, the scruffy wolfdog solemnly accepting his new roommates. (Don, Bailey, and Kenai. They'll make a good family.) She calls Jeven and talks to him for over an hour; he wishes her luck on her trip to Earth 12. (If only he knew.)

Midmorning, she stops by 4C's for a coffee, savoring her drink and ignoring the news articles. All she wants to know is the weather forecast. And according to her watch, it's a bone-chilling thirteen degrees Fahrenheit. Snowfall is expected within the hour. If ever there was a time to abandon cold, northerly Central for warmer climates, Nora reflects, it's now. Once the ice sets in, life slows down - so do speedsters. She does not envy Don's position, even though she _does_ envy his ability to stay with Bailey. Already, a burning desire to return to Jeven threatens to shatter her resolve.

Steeling herself, she disposes her coffee cup in an auto-recycling unit, scanning in the credit on her watch. Avid coffee drinkers look no farther than Central City's Contemporary Coffee, affectionately known as 4C's, which provides the highest credit-to-coffee ratio in town. For every two drinks a user dispenses properly, a free drink is provided. It's not uncommon for casual celebrators to pile into 4C's, have their fill, and then deposit their credits solely upon the reason for the occasion.

Following her twenty-fifth birthday, Nora didn't have to buy her own coffee for a week - the entire Legends family showed up to ensure that their table-for-four was so fiendishly overcrowded they had to consolidate two more tables. The café's little auto-cleaning robot, dutifully patrolling the floor, tried to breach the wall of chair legs to reach a napkin that had fallen to the floor. Taking pity on it, Auntie Gideon picked the napkin up and deposited it near the "Rober," which promptly completed its mission and zipped off.

A lump lodges in Nora's throat. She hasn't seen any of the Legends in a long time now. They don't stop by often – sometimes visits are years apart – but she still maintains close friendships with them. Something about their ragtag crusade, led by the indomitable Aunt Sara, delights her, and they never come back without stories. She's an honorary member, just like Uncle Wally. Uncle Wally and she might call Central City home, but their hearts yearn for the wide open fields that the Waverider provides.

Abandoning the memories and the warmth of 4C's, Nora steps outside into a monochrome world. The cold is familiar, but she still zips her jacket up to her chin, her Flash ring containing her superior suit for more inconspicuous moments. She walks at a brisk pace to activate the thermal circulation unit stitched into the fabric of her jacket, kickstarting the feedback loop to keep her warm. It's not cold enough to be dangerous yet, but in less than a month the averages fall below zero with a wind chill factor approaching Antarctic levels. Corresponding to the cold, crime rates drop off. Without proper thermal gear, exposure poses a real risk to everyone, even in the heart of Central City. For a forensic scientist, it's almost an agreeable time: the sudden decrease in new crime gives the CCPD a rare chance to catch up on old cases while waiting for the horn to sound. For a speedster, it's the opposite case: shy of running, nothing seems to obliterate the bone-deep cold.

 _It's time to run_ , a voice whispers as a few flakes of snow drift down. _It's time to run, little one_.

Still, Nora hesitates.

To give herself time, she walks the length of the city and climbs the marble staircase to The Flash Museum. A shiver of anticipation works down her spine. The exterior doors slide back automatically to accommodate her, a plush carpet absorbing the moisture from her boots before she crosses the interior threshold. Reflexively, she unzips her jacket, allowing the warm, dry air to dissipate.

In front of her, a receptionist looks up from a nearly transparent holo-book. Closing it unhurriedly, he sets it on the desk in front of himself and greets politely, "Welcome to The Flash Museum. May I scan your ID?"

Obediently, Nora holds out her left wrist, allowing the receptionist to scan her watch. "If you have any questions about our exhibits, simply say, 'Access Teller' and a robotic assistant will be available to answer them," the receptionist explains, gesturing towards the entrance of the first hall. "If for any reason you need human assistance, simply say, 'Access Desk' and I will arrive promptly. Any questions?"

Shaking her head, Nora adds, "Thank you," and the receptionist nods once and smiles.

"Enjoy your visit."

The Museum is nearly empty at this hour; most of Central has their attention on more practical occupations. Unburdened, Nora walks through the grand, high-ceilinged halls, examining each artifact as if for the very first time. The procedural passage reminds her of her very first visit to the Museum on a trip with her first-grade class. Enraptured, they ogled the relics of another time, asking Teller so many questions that it was a miracle the overlapping conversations didn't simply cancel out into white noise.

Nora pauses in front of the defunct cold gun, accessing Teller. She need only say the name of the exhibit to receive a detailed history of its contents, beginning with the first documented encounter and ending with the final confrontation. The option to cancel Teller's speech is easy: simply repeating its name ends the inquiry. She lets it roll on uninterrupted as the minutes tick by, the short version provided in a thirty-second spiel succeeded by a leisurely ten-minute lecture. She knows Captain Cold's story, almost by heart, but she still listens attentively, absorbing the words like she'll have to repeat them.

To each exhibit, she repeats the same exhaustive routine until she has scanned almost fifty artifacts and swallowed more than eight hours of the waning afternoon. Desk accessibility ends at four PM, but Teller accessibility continues around the clock, allowing night owls to participate in their prime. Beginning to drag her feet, a cloud of reluctance descending over her shoulders, Nora reaches the final exhibition.

Zoom's story makes the hairs rise on her arms; across time and space, it seems, his grasp is tangible. Eobard's story rings true with everything he has told her in person, yet there still seems a thousand years of time between them unspoken, and she knows she cannot trust him. Savitar's story is only a closed book in Teller's serene recital; Nora knows that he, too, is out there, somewhere. A replication of her own suit occupies a shelf, a strange story emerging when she asks Teller about it: it prompts, simply, _first user or second user?_

Reluctant to think of what lies between them, Nora skips both options and stands in front of the last suit: a perfect, too-perfect replica of The Flash's final suit. She looks unconsciously for the burn wounds that must be there, the holes, the scrapes, the fraying edges. No suit holds up over time; they all develop their own bruises, like the speedsters who wear them. Seeing them in their perfection almost makes them unreal, like the people behind them never existed.

The flesh-and-blood Eobard is easy to understand, and Zoom's cold breath and Savitar's distant shadow strike her as real projections, but The Flash – The Flash seems almost intangible to her, like he never really existed, like the whole story was a myth, a legend, created to fool the city into believing a hero could arise to stop the evil forces at work.

Sitting cross-legged in front of the case, Nora looks up at it, searching for reality, and requests simply, "Tell me about The Flash."

The response is brief, almost too brief. Early life is unlisted. Born on the night of the STAR Labs' particle accelerator explosion in 2014, The Flash became one of Central City's most respected do-gooders, stopping the singularity, defeating the DeVoes, and sacrificing himself for the sake of the city. He saved thousands of civilians and appeared in hundreds of police cases as a key element in the arrests and even prosecutions of criminals. He appeared as a golden streak, captured occasionally on film and in pictures. (The option to view the pictures appears on her watch. Silently and inexplicably, Nora declines.) He was friends with titans, including Supergirl and the Green Arrow, Vibe and Killer Frost. And he disappeared in a blinding flash of white light on the night of April 24, 2024.

A switch seems to flip, and Nora senses rather than see the atmosphere change behind her. Teller falls silent, leaving only Nora's breath in the vast hollow space, her eyes trained on the empty suit before her. Pushing herself off the cold marble floor, she turns warily towards the apparition, the abominable, the ethereal –

The Black Flash blinks at her, once, Its white eyes flickering out for just a moment before gazing again at her, a soft, burning intensity there. Its clawed hands flex at Its sides, grasping for something It cannot reach. It does not breathe; and, were she able to touch It without dying, Nora knows that she would find no beating heart beneath Its black-suited chest. It regards her with funereal solemnity, holding back, waiting for her response.

At last, dry-mouthed, she gives it: "Why are you here?"

She already knows, the same voice as before urging, _Run, run while you still can_.

Slowly, Death advances towards her. It cannot speak; Nora knows It was made silent. It must be; It is the perfect predator. But there is nothing predatorial in Its manner as It approaches her; instead, there is supplication, almost weariness, in Its deeply hunched shoulders. Standing seven feet erect, the Black Flash appears almost human as It nears her.

She takes a step towards It and halts, waiting. It mirrors her, stopping only four feet away, close enough that one of Its long arms could reach out and grasp her shoulder, leading her away forever. She closes her eyes, imagining the Great Beyond where the Black Flash would escort her, where it takes all the newly deceased. She can see more clearly the emptiness of the Speed Force that acts as limbo between the land of the living and the land of the dead. She sways on her feet, almost imperceptibly, torn between her objective and running as far and as fast as she can away from it all.

When she opens her eyes, the Monster is still there, but It has not moved. Sadness sweeps over her, bringing tears to her eyes. She knows the world beyond them and these hallowed halls will keep turning. She knows that Jeven will be patient, Don and Kenai will be fine, Captain Thorne will accept her excuse to save another world as truth and Jakiah will carry on business as usual. They will wait in anticipation of her happy return. But there is something devastating in the Black Flash's arrival, something all too noncoincidental.

 _If you leave, will you ever return?_

She tries to find words and cannot speak. The silence grows oppressive, unbearable.

She says softly, "I have to try."

The Black Flash looks at her, unblinking, and slowly nods once. Then It turns on Its heel and walks away.

"Don't leave," she pleads.

It pauses, Its footsteps soundless on the floor. Her own feet make soft, clipped sounds on the marble. "Please," she says, hating the lump in her throat. "I –" _I don't want to lose you_.

It hits her hard, the realization that she may lose not just It but _everything_ , that the attempt may be impossible, that the task may be futile, and a tear spills over. "I can't wait forever," she says fervently. "I've waited for so long – to meet _you_." She stumbles over the words, struggling to encapsulate the feeling building in her, the one that drove her to this place, the one that insists she move forward. "Don't you want that?"

Slowly – Death is patient, Death has time – the Black Flash turns to face her, Its glowing white eyes expressing sentiments It cannot voice. She aches for someone to translate the expression, to prove her wrong, because she knows what it says and can't bear it.

 _Haven't you met me?_

"You're …" Faltering, letting the word pass into silence like one spoken to a grave, Nora says, "You're … not … alive."

She tries to infuse gentleness in the words, but there is no gentle way to say them, and the hollowness of the revelation feels permanent – terribly, ineradicably permanent. "I'm sorry," she says, and Death does not walk away. A tear drips down her face. "I have to go."

Reaching up to brush her cheek with the sleeve of her jacket, she repeats in a warbled tone, "I have to _go_."

She runs.

. o .

November 1, 2017

The grass is green.

The air is warm, almost unbearably warm in her thermal suit. Carefully, wary of triggering a cold snap, Nora unzips the jacket, draping it over one arm. She inhales deeply, shuddering at the smell of _grass_. It must be summer, she decides; summer, or early fall. Striding across the landscape towards the metropolis nestled within it, she finds herself shaking, not from cold but from shock.

 _I did it_.

Already, her mind attempts to conjure threads she left untied, but she ruthlessly stuffs the thoughts into a box for another time. _I'm here_ , she marvels, looking down as the grass melts away to concrete. No biting wind snares its teeth into her exposed skin. She checks her watch wonderingly for the temperature and finds a red _low battery_ warning. Frowning – she'll have to find a charger soon – she flicks the power off and chooses the survivalist's route, instead: beelining for the nearest facility with some kind of display.

The unfamiliarity of the city quickly makes her uneasy: the cumbersome cars fighting with snarling yellow taxis for the few unoccupied spaces on the curb; the loudness of human noise filling the city in _November_ ( _no; it can't be November_ ); the utter lack of the ubiquitous Rober.

In the big, industrial environment, she feels simultaneously out of place and at home. Despite their chaos, the streets aren't completely unrecognizable. She begins to see the pattern, the grid of the city at large. Relief removes some of the tension coiled up in her shoulders. Yes. Yes, she knows this place.

Maybe Robers aren't as common here, she reasons, because they'd be trampled instantly in the fray. God: _summer_. She inhales deeply, warmly, savoring it. The biting cold is no more, and her skin feels electrified as a result. Summer, summer, _summer_.

Wandering the city with the brisk strides mirroring purposefulness, she wonders dazedly where to start – the CCPD? The thought of meeting Captain Thorne makes her surprisingly uneasy; she knows that her cover would be blown the instant she walked in. _Weren't you supposed to be on Earth 12?_ she can hear the Captain asking.

Flustered for no reason – thanks to the fact that this is _the past_ , Captain Thorne wouldn't even know about the original request yet – Nora ducks into the nearest coffee-smelling shop, looking instinctively for the auto-recycling unit on the counter near the door. There is none. _Don't panic_ , she tells herself, because if there are no auto-recycling units than there is a solid chance that there is no credit-to-coffee system. _Doesn't mean they don't have a credit system, period_ , she comforts herself.

Then she thinks about her watch and the absurd possibility of burning all the remaining battery in a single transaction. It's ludicrous – scanning takes one-thousandth of a second – but it remains unshakable. Floundering, she casts about and sits abruptly in a big cushy chair with a hard, unyielding frame in front of a television mounted on the wall. She inhales, exhales. She watches the news, for the first time all day.

It's only 11:16 AM – must be almost midnight back home, she reasons, feeling a wave of fatigue clawing its way to the surface as she yawns. Jetlag, she thinks, humored, listening intently to the conversations of the people at her backs. So. Many. _People_. How can this many people live in one place? She knows that Central was built for more people than live in her time – 'her time,' like she is the universal constant that time is measured against; God, this is giving her a headache – but it seems surreal to find it flushed with life.

Metas messed with the weather too many times in her – in _the future,_ and still that doesn't comfort her – but surely their actions couldn't have changed the city this radically … right?

In idle wonder, she watches the morning news, talking about a local event coming up, some kind of fundraiser for the firefighters. Her eyes flit belatedly to the corner of the screen, where the signature dutifully displays the current date: Nov 1 2017.

She blinks, leaning forward, gazing hard at that number, unable to comprehend its magnitude. Coldness sinks into her hands, her feet. She craves something warm, something _home_ , something _familiar_ so much that she rises and approaches the crowded coffee counter. Nothing robotic about this system, either, except for the machines dishing out the actual brew. She proceeds towards the front and before she has an actual plan is standing in front of a bright-eyed girl fully eight years younger than she is. "Hi, how can I help you?" the girl asks.

Nora falters. "I –" _How does any of this work?_

She has ordered coffee almost every day for the past nine years, and yet the actual transaction sits impotently on her tongue as she says slowly, "I'm – sorry, I didn't mean to –" Fighting a wave of shame, she walks away, nearly overturning a poor guy's table in the process. "Oh, wow, I'm sorry, that's on me—"

"No, no, don't worry about it," the man replies, flashing her an award-winning smile. "Please, it's okay." Then, cocking his head at her, he says, "I know you."

Heart beating fast, Nora assures, "That's impossible."

"No, no," Mr. Smiley insists. "I know you."

Nora says, "I'm positive you do not."

Mr. Smiley says, "What's your name?"

Feeling uneasy, Nora permits, "Nora."

Mr. Smiley cocks his head at her. "Okay, don't tell me – it'll come to me –" Sticking his tongue out a little, he frowns for a moment, then snaps his fingers. "You're Iris' kiddo! Aw, damn, I'm the worst seventh uncle ever."

Reeling, Nora asks, "Huh?"

"Nate," the man says, thrusting a hand at her and clasping hers in both of his, shaking vigorously. "Nate Ulysses Heywood, at your service."

Tears pool in Nora's eyes, recognition almost bowling her over. "Oh my _God_ ," she says, latching onto his neck tightly, squeezing him hard. "Right now you are my _favorite_ seventh uncle."

"Don't make me blush," Nate drawls, patting her on the back. "What're you doing here, kid? Aren't you, uh –" Waving a hand vaguely, he asks, "You stowaway on our ship?" There's a twinkle in his eye as he says it, refusing to go into detail in public in the risk of exposing the whole venture.

Shaking her head slowly, Nora dares to sink into the chair across from him and say, "No, I – I came alone."

"Wow!" Nate claps her gently on the shoulder. "Good. For. You! That takes gumption."

Blushing, Nora asks, "Why're _you_ here?"

With a bray of laughter, Nate tips back his chair a little and replies, "You don't know? Your Mom and Pop're getting married! The whole gang is in town. We can't all stay, but, we wanted to pay our respects. That sounds like we're at a funeral – we just wanted to send them off well." Cocking his head, he adds, "You're a long way from Kansas, you know that?"

Frozen, Nora asks, "They're – getting married?"

Nate nods and pulls the stirring stick out of his coffee, sucking on it. "Uh huh. Two days from now."

"And – Dad –" _Do not cry, do not cry._ "Dad's – here?"

"I mean, probably? He might be over on, uh – he might be picking up Kara and company, if you catch my drift," he backpedals with a wink. "But, yeah, he'll be here on the big day. I should hope. I'm not supposed to be," he adds. "Somebody's gotta watch the ship when the Captain's away, and Ray and I have been elected."

"Is that a good idea?" Nora blurts unthinkingly.

Nate snorts, stands, and says, "No trust in this family. Hold on, I'm gonna get you something to drink, I feel like a total deadbeat over here."

"You don't have to do—"

"Nonsense. Anything for my seventh favorite niece."

"I don't think that's how it works," Nora says dryly, relieved to her core. Nate waves it off, shuffling in line while Nora idly and almost helplessly reaches for the phone he left on the table.

There's a message on the lock screen from Ray:

 _me, u, laser tag, wr, y/n?_

Longing to reach out to another familiar face in a world unfamiliar, Nora waits for Nate to return, glancing periodically over her shoulder at the TV in the corner. Still November 1, 2017. Letting her attention drift back to the table, she startles when Nate sets a cup of coffee in front of her, announcing, "Your drink."

"Thanks, Uncle Nate," Nora replies.

Smirking, Nate says, "Now _that_ makes me feel old."

"Sorry. Nate," Nora says, smiling as she picks up her coffee and takes a careful sip. "Wait." Setting the drink down, she adds with a frown, "How do you – you're not from – if you know about _me_ –"

Despite wrinkle lines around his eyes, Nate still has a youthful glow about him. "Haven't aged a day, have I? It's a gift. Poor Uncle Ray went gray."

"I mean…" Nora gestures at her temples, barely visible patches of gray in Nate's hair.

Groaning theatrically, Nate picks up his phone and types out a lightning quick response before setting it down. "Give a kid a coffee," he says sagely. "Yeah, no, I wasn't kidding when I said somebody had to watch the Waverider on the big day." Stumbling over the verbs, he adds, "Somebody _has_ to. Big day is two days from now. Anyway, Ray and I drew the short straws, so we missed out. _But_. Thanks to the miracle of modern invention, we've found a way to be in two places at once."

"Isn't that… dangerous?" Nora sips her drink, listening raptly, trying to absorb everything. The coffee settles warmly in her stomach, elevating her mood already.

Nate snorts. "Dangerous, they won't even know. I mean, they will know, because we thought about it way-back-when, but nobody's going to interfere and it all played out. We checked the loop." Holding up a thumb and forefinger in a loop, Nate finishes, "A-OK."

Nora mirrors him, musing, "Is that like -" Fishing, she settles on holding up two fingers in a peace sign. "Old school?"

"You're killing me, kid." Clutching his chest in mock despair, Nate says, "How long're you staying?"

It startles Nora, prompting her to set her coffee aside, frowning pensively. "I … don't exactly know?"

"You can come back with us," Nate says, gesturing idly over his shoulder. "The old girl is with the rest of the gang right now, but they'll be back once the festivities are over to pick us up. Ray and I. Safest bet for a safe landing in the … right place," Nate finishes, avoiding the forbidden _time_.

Nora stirs her coffee uneasily. "That's in two days, right?"

"Three, actually – we won't leave till the day after the wedding."

 _Three days._ "I … I don't know," she repeats truthfully. "I came – for a reason."

"To see your Pop," Nate says, nodding.

A lump forms in Nora's throat. "Yes," she says softly. "To see him."

"Can't deny a kid a reunion with her dad," Nate says, sipping the last of his own drink. "I admit, this is a bit of a one-way ticket. Once Ray and I hightail it back, we won't be able to just drop off here on a dime. It's busy, and trust me when I say we don't miss family reunions for nothing." Seriously, he adds, "Think about it. We'd come get you no matter what if you asked, but I can't promise it'd be any time soon. Could be years."

Something cold forms in Nora's stomach at the thought of being missing from her own time for years. What it would do to everybody – the shock, the fear, the grief. Shaking her head, banishing the thought, she says firmly, "I'll take the chance."

Nate nods, like he expected it, and says, "Okay, now that we've got that settled, where're you staying?"

"Where're _you_ staying?" Nora counters unthinkingly.

"Local penitentiary," Nate deadpans. With a shrug, he corrects, "Your run-of-the-mill three-star hotel. We've got a pullout couch. You're welcome to stay with us if you want."

Relief floods Nora, but it evaporates when she remembers the deadline: _three days. Then they're gone_. "Thank you."

"Anything for the West-Allens," Nate says with a smile, lifting his empty cup in a toast.

Nora lifts her own half-full cup and taps it against his. "For the West-Allens," she echoes solemnly.

As she pitches the cup in the recycling bin twenty minutes later, she reflexively moves her wrist to scan for the credit.

 _This … is going to take some getting used to_.

. o .

November 1, 2017

"Why is it so loud?" Nora asks, struggling to be heard over the speakers blaring out some upbeat pop song with absolutely no words.

"So we can have a conversation without being heard," Nate replies, paying the guy at the desk a wad of bills.

"Also it's more fun," Ray points out cheerfully, accepting a massive pair of bowling shoes. Nate was right – he's got gray hair for days. Nora smiles at the sight.

"I can roll with that," Nora replies, accepting a pair of shoes that is only half a size too big. "So, how do we play?"

"Take this ball," Nate says, fishing a massive marble marked _8_ off a circular rack, "and knock down those pins." Pointing across the alley, he adds, "You've never bowled?"

Shaking her head, Nora admits, "Mom never wanted to, and my friends were … busy a lot."

"Well, today's your lucky day," Ray says, cheerfully oblivious to the sudden sadness in her tone. "Because Nate is the worst bowler in the world. You cannot stoop below him."

"I'll show _you_ the worst bowler in the world," Nate says, thrusting a ball marked _12_ at Ray.

The banter works its magic; Nora relaxes, carrying her own bowling ball under one arm and the bowling shoes in the other. "This is kinda crazy, isn't it? I mean, you two are from – what?"

"'52," Nate fills in promptly.

"We're very old," Ray adds with a sage nod.

"And I'm from '49," Nora continues, "and yet we're all here, in – 2017?"

"Nailed it." Briskly tying off his shoes, Nate dusts himself off and sets up the game board. "Guess that's what happens when you mess with time. Good thing we both had a benchmark. You might've floated off into the '90s or something if it weren't for us."

Nora knows – _knows_ that she would have found the right time, the right place eventually – but Nate makes a compelling point. "I guess I owe you a 'thank-you.'"

"Nah, we're your two least favorite uncles," Nate says cheerfully. "No thanks needed."

"Hey, there's a difference between sixth and seventh uncles and _least favorite_ —"

"Play ball!" Nate roars, launching himself from the seat and nearly startling Ray off his.

They talk time travel and tomfoolery for a while, Nora managing to successfully pitch two balls into another lane before finding the right trajectory. Nate, contrary to Ray's remarks, tips 160 before the tenth frame; Ray, hot on his heels at 158, smiles at Nora's score. "It's like golf," he says, "lowest score wins."

Nora knows that 36 is far from a winning score on the seventh frame, but she still smiles. "Oh, good, I'm a natural."

"You should be – your Mom and Pop played every other weekend. Disgustingly romantic," Nate chimes in, hooting as he bowls a strike. "Hell yeah! I mean – heck."

Nora rolls her eyes in amused exasperation. "I'm almost thirty, you can say _hell_."

"Geez, kids grow up fast. You were like, five, the last time I saw you."

"You were there for my twentieth birthday," Nora points out. "Less gray," she adds, brushing her temples demonstratively.

"You're adding more to it every hour," Nate assures dryly.

"Last time _I_ saw you," Ray adds importantly, "we were celebrating your twenty-fifth while that Roomba tried to take us out."

"Robers and Roombas are like, vacuum cleaners and Swiffers," Nate retorts.

"I was raised by the Roomba, and I will die by the Roomba," Ray says solemnly.

"What's a Roomba?" Nora asks, carefully stepping up to bat.

"A less-cool Rober," Nate replies.

"A _retro_ Rober," Ray retorts. "Very chic."

"What's chic?"

"Oh, God, I'm so _old_ ," Nate groans, burying his head in his hands. "Do you know what 'classy' means?"

"Yes?" Nora lines up the ball before gingerly setting it on the ground and giving it a push with two hands.

"Well, chic is the opposite of classy," Nate says importantly, clapping loudly alongside Ray when the ball gently knocks down one pin. "Hey, look at our bowling prodigy!"

"Chic is _not_ the opposite of classy," Ray huffs. "Don't listen to anything Nate tells you."

"Don't listen to anything Uncle Ray tells you," Nate counters.

"This is a riddle, isn't it?" Nora asks, carefully picking up her ball for the second round.

"No, this is God, speaking to you through me, telling you that Ray is a liar," Nate says, clapping again when Nora strikes out completely, landing in the gutter. "Doing great!"

"A natural!" Ray agrees, applauding just as enthusiastically.

Flushed with pride and amusement, Nora flops down in a chair and says, "This game is weird."

"It was this or a stripper club," Nate replies, hopping to his feet.

Ray face-palms. "I'm so sorry for him."

Reaching out to pat Ray's shoulder reassuringly, Nora says with a laugh, "Don't be. I missed you two." It surprises her how _much_ – they might affectionately be her "least favorite uncles," simply because everyone else called dibs on previous numbers, but she really, honestly missed them. "This would be a lot scarier without you two."

"First rule of time travel," Nate says, walking away from the alley even as the ball shatters the pins in a strike. "Never travel alone."

Ray nods seriously. "He's right. Besides, you always wanted to fly in the Waverider, didn't you? Now's your chance."

Reminded, Nora frowns. "Why didn't you let me in the Waverider before?"

Ray almost forgets about his turn until Nate propels him forward, claiming Ray's seat for himself immediately. "It's dangerous," he says, voice serious for the first time that night. "And we'd never forgive ourselves if anything happened to a kid."

"I thought you said it was safe—"

"Safer than traveling alone in the timestream, yes," Nate agrees, nodding. " _Way_ more dangerous than a walk in the park. You made it this far unscathed, but – I don't even want to think about anything happening to you on the way back."

A chill seeping down her spine, Nora says quietly, "Nothing will happen on the way back."

Ray's spare brings a whoop of joy, breaking her reverie. Smiling, she adds, "Besides, we've got three days."

"Three whole days," Nate agrees.

. o .

November 2, 2017

 _Today is the first day of the rest of your life,_ Nora thinks upon awakening.

Staring up at the ceiling – surprised that an entire bed could _fit_ inside a couch – she wonders if it was all a dream, if the crazy shenanigans with her least visited uncles were imagined. Then she hears Ray snoring nearby and sits up, reaching out to press her watch instinctively.

 _Low battery_ , it warns.

November 2, 2017, it adds perfunctorily in the second before she shuts it off again.

Unwilling to wake either Nate or Ray, Nora eases herself to her feet carefully, still wearing the same clothes as the night before. She pads over to the bathroom and freshens up, reaching unconsciously for amenities that aren't there, grimly observing her own slightly beleaguered appearance. _Thank God the wedding isn't today_. Just the thought of actually meeting her _dad_ has her heart pounding. She feels almost sick at the idea that it's inevitable, now – that she just has to go out and _find him_ because he's _alive_ –

There's an ashy taste in her mouth and an ache in her chest, a deep pain like tragedy. Hunching forward, she puts her hands on the counter and breathes deeply, in and out, trying not to hyperventilate.

 _November 1, 2029_

 _She's five years old when the Black Flash arrives._

 _"Who are you?"_

 _The Beast looks down at her, head tilted slightly, eyes soft and white. "I'm not s'posed to talk to strangers," Nora informs the Black Flash politely, scooting closer on the front stoop with her knees drawn up to her chest. "You a friend of Mama's?" The Black Flash looks away slowly. Nora nods sagely to herself. "Everybody's a friend of Mama's. She's sad a lot, but not in front of them. Why do you think she's sad?" She wants to reach out and touch the Black Flash's shoulder, but It tenses, recoiling. "Sorry. I won't touch," she promises, putting both hands flat on the wooden porch demonstratively. Rocking a little, she asks quietly, "What's your name?"_

 _Looking at her, compassion like parenthood in Its eyes, the Black Flash lifts a steeply clawed hand, gently places it on the wooden post, and engraves three letters._ B. H. A.

 _Disappointingly, the acronym is nonsense to her. Fortunately, she knows how to sound new words out. "Bha," she says aloud, giggling. "Baaaaah."_

 _Humor flits across the Black Flash's expression before receding into the darkness, quiet, thoughtful. "That's a funny name," Nora says appreciatively. "I like it. Why are you so quiet, Mr. Bah? Can you talk?"_

 _Mr. Bah shakes his head._

 _"Oh." Nodding, Nora sing-songs, "Bah, bah, black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full." Humming, unsure of the rest of the words, she adds, "I like you, Mr. Bah. People say I talk too much, but you don't mind, do you?" Again, Mr. Bah shakes his head. Relieved, Nora nods to herself. "I should tell Mama you're here. Mama said I shouldn't talk to strangers. But you're not a stranger anymore," she adds, beaming. "You're Mr. Bah. I'm Nora. Nora Dawn West-Allen. You can call me Nora."_

 _Mr. Bah looks at her, tilting Its head. "Are you a Ghost?" Nora asks._

 _Mr. Bah inclines Its head. It is neither confirmation nor denial, but Nora still lowers her voice in hushed reverence. "Or are you magic, like Santa?"_

 _An amused smile quirks the edges of Mr. Bah's lips, the gesture almost erased by the unyielding black suit. Still, she sense Its amusement as much as she sees it. It warms her heart. "If you know Santa," she whispers, "tell him I want a puppy for Christmas. Can you? Can you do that, Mr. Bah?"_

 _Mr. Bah taps Its fingers against the porch, accentuating thought. Then, regally, It nods. Nora beams. "Thank you, Mr. Bah. Mama will be so happy. Everybody loves puppies._ I _love puppies. Do you love puppies?" Mr. Bah nods. "I knew you did," Nora says smartly. "'Cause everybody loves puppies."_

 _On Christmas Eve, a whining, shivering, downtrodden little mutt shows up on the West-Allen door-front. He has no tag. Despite rigorous searching, no one puts up a "Lost Dog" ad anywhere. Defeated when friends and family alike admit to full households, they name him Cody, and Cody is their coyote, a golden-rust pup that grows to stand taller than the five-year-old who wanted him._

Cody was seventeen when he passed away.

Nora never thought about replacing him. She just waited, knowing that when the time came, the next pup who needed her would arrive. And in two years, she met an old, gorgeous girl named Lady, whiling her days in a shelter after her family moved away. Lady was a Husky-mix, and her adventuresome spirit led to Kenai, indubitably part wolf and the only pup of the litter that Nora kept to herself.

She can almost see the golden snout poking hopefully above the counter. She shuts off the light and steps back into the blinding darkness of the room, pausing a moment to adjust. Padding noiselessly to her pullout couch, she almost screams when she sees the Apparition sitting on the floor near the window, a hint of morning light playing across Its black suit.

"You scared me," she hisses in the softest voice she possesses, sinking to the floor across from It. "Don't you knock?" She isn't mad at It, but there's a strange emotion welling in her chest, apprehension, awareness. "When did you get here?"

The Black Flash blinks at her, once, patient, everlasting. Inhuman, It doesn't need to blink, nor breathe, but Its chest still rises, almost rhythmically. It's strangely comforting. It fits within her worldview. Still, she knows it's a show, and she doesn't run when It fails to perform. "Stupid question," she admits, and the Black Flash shakes Its head. " _Why_ are you here?" she rephrases, grateful for Ray's loud snoring – it omits entirely any chance of eavesdropping.

Unable to speak in the land of the living, the Black Flash simply regards her, tapping out a silent message against the floorboard, a meaningless contemplation. Frustrated, she rises to her feet, whispers, "Race you," and disappears in a blur of purple and yellow light.

Instantly, It's back, standing just in front of her, not ten paces away. "Okay," she admits, "you're still faster."

 _I'm less confined,_ the Black Flash admits, voice familiar and yet not, a voice tempered by the Speed Force. There is something inextricably inhuman about It. _It's not a fair contest._

Rushing towards It, heedless of the darkness surrounding them, the blank slate of the Speed Force almost comforting in its infinity, she lunges forward and throws her arms around Its shoulders, squeezing tightly. "God, I missed you."

Curling Its arms around her, softly, soothingly, the Black Flash replies, _I missed you, too._

Still holding onto the Black Flash tightly, Nora admits softly, "I'm way over my head."

Unperturbed, radiating warmth, the Black Flash holds her back, Its grip strong and untiring. _I thought I could make it easier for you._

"What do you mean?" Nora presses the question into Its iron shoulder, knowing It can hear her. If she was at the bottom of the ocean and It was on the moon, It could hear her.

 _Nate. Ray_. Smiling to Itself, the Black Flash adds calmly, _I knew they would figure it out, if I put the right idea in their minds._

"Did you hypnotize them?"

With only a trace of amused offense, the Black Flash corrects, _I might have placed a rather crumpled 'note to self' where it would be seen again on Nate's table. He picked it up from there. Ray was a happy bonus._

Sighing, Nora says, "Thank you."

 _I cannot protect you,_ the Black Flash says solemnly. _I cannot even spare your life, should it come to that. But I can do some things. And whatever options are available to me, I will use them to ensure that you do not come to harm._

"I don't need you to protect me," Nora assures, but she does not let go, and she knows that she leans on It more than she wants to admit. "But I … I'm really glad you're here."

It squeezes her gently. _I'm always here. I'm everywhere._

"I don't know what I'm doing," Nora admits, swaying gently in Its arms. "But I have to be here. I have to find him. I have to."

The Black Flash is silent – by choice, this time, and Nora knows how profound the difference is.

 _You have me,_ It says at last, and there is an indistinguishable note of emotion in Its voice, and before she can puzzle it out, the Black Flash vanishes, and the soft hues of the city at dawn appear in Its wake.

Tucking her arms around herself – still wearing the thermal suit, thank God – she looks around at the strange city, the familiar city, and wonders if she'll ever know what It meant by those three words.

. o .

November 2, 2017

"Okay, scamp, this is a dollar," Nate instructs, standing in front of her in the hotel room and holding a green slice of paper in front of her. "This is _money_. Money is used to _buy_ things. Like _food_. And _clothes_. And _pizza_."

"Pizza _is_ food," Nora reminds him.

" _Money_ is what credits are to you," Nate continues, unperturbed. Sitting cross-legged on Ray's bed – he's already up and at 'em, showering to avoid Nate's teachings – she props her elbows on her knees, chin in hands. "This is one dollar. It takes fifteen dollars to buy a pizza."

Nora frowns. "That seems like a lot of credits—"

"A dollar is like …" Squinting, Nate amends, "A credit is worth about three dollars. So it's five credits for a pizza. One credit – three dollars. Understood?"

"One credit, three dollars," Nora parrots. "What's that?"

"This is a _five-dollar bill_ ," Nate adds, flourishing it. "Or, about one-and-a-half credits."

"One-and-a-half credits," Nora repeats. "Okay. So, divide everything by three and it's schway."

Nodding solemnly, Nate says, "Ray and I use credits in the future, but we keep a stockpile of hard money for trips like this."

"Hard money," Nora says, frowning. "That looks pretty soft."

"It's an expression. Hard money is used to buy things when you don't have a _credit card_ , _not_ to be confused with a network credit system."

"… All right," Nora permits. "NC is not CC."

Nate nods. "There's also a _ten-dollar bill_ ," he continues, producing one from his 'wallet,' a pocket holder for storing money, which is used to buy pizza – she's _got_ this – "and the _twenty-dollar bill._ "

Nora cocks her head at him. "Seems like an inconvenience to carry them around all the time."

"It is," Nate agrees sincerely. "Makes robbery extremely easy. That's why a lot of people in this time use credit cards. Slightly less easy to use, at least in the short run."

"So, is the twenty-dollar bill the highest?"

Nate shakes his head, pulls up his own watch, sits beside her, and sifts through a high-speed search in less than six seconds. "Okay, see this? Fifty-dollar bill. Pretty rare; much less common than twenty-dollar bills. One-hundred dollar bills are a little less common than fifty-dollar bills. Then you have five-hundred dollar bills, one-thousand dollar bills…" He trails off, fishing again for his wallet and producing a wad of bills. "It's called _cash_ , too, or _currency_. Either way, you use it to buy stuff. Just like credits."

Nora nods, absentmindedly flapping the bills in her hand. "So, how many credits is this—"

"About five hundred."

Nora blinks. Reeling, she says, "That's – a lot."

Nate says seriously, "It'll keep you fed and sheltered for about a month in this time, because I'm assuming you're going home at the end of the month and won't have decided to stay and live among the penguins." Sternly, he adds, "If not, you'll want to use it to set yourself up with a job – a vocation, an occupation, a thing that puts more money into your wallet."

"How do you get a job?" Nora asks.

Nate laughs. "Less than a day in a whole new world and already looking to join the rat races, huh? You can find jobs all around the city. It's a lot like the future, actually; you look them up using the technology around, newspapers and TV and Internet and such, and then you follow the application process and hopefully get hired."

Nora holds up a hand. "Rat races?" She scrunches up her nose. "I don't like that."

"It's an expression," Nate says patiently. "Means you wanna join the workforce. Get the cheese. Work for the big cheese. A lot of cheesy metaphors. Mostly because it's a means that gets you to an end: pizza."

"Is pizza, like, religious or something?"

"It should be."

"Oh no, what nonsense is he feeding you now?" Ray asks, emerging bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, dressed business-casual for the pre-wedding festivities.

"Is pizza a religious symbol?" Nora asks him seriously.

Flatly, Ray says, "No." Looking at Nate disapprovingly, he adds, "Just – direct all your temporal questions my way and I think we'll all get through this in one piece."

Nora flashes him an A-OK sign. "Schway."

. o .

November 2, 2017

Thirty-two years from now, life will be very different in Central City.

It will be colder, and quieter, and less populated. Speedsters will be fewer and farther between – according to temporal experts Nate and Ray, at least four of them live in this era alone, with another two suspected ( _Dad, Uncle Wally, Aunt Jesse, and Grandpapa Jay_ ; Eobard and Savitar only deem to appear in the Speed Force). The ratio of good metas to evil metas will decrease as, inevitably, it seems, the good die, in relentless, global catastrophes, spurred far too often by human hands.

Indeed, when the Reverse Flash finally makes his final strike against The Flash, the battle is as much local as it is symbolic, a clash of titans fighting for their species. When neither emerges from the battle, things change in the formerly bright Central City.

It's one of the reasons why Nora _became_ X-S. Not to usurp her father and his legacy but to keep it _alive_. For years, she could do little to combat the metahuman threat. Now, fully in possession of her Speed, _nothing_ is stopping her from taking action. An uneasy feeling settles in her stomach at the reminder that she has abandoned her world in pursuit of her own selfish goals.

 _They survived without me for decades,_ she tells herself. _They can survive three days alone_.

But it won't be three days, she already knows, even though she cannot know how she will react to her flesh-and-blood father. She wants to believe that she will love him on sight, terrified of the alternative. _I've always loved you_ , she thinks, but when she closes her eyes it is not the man in the red suit, face almost indistinguishable in the article, that she sees.

It is the cool, expressionless face of the Black Flash that emerges.

Opening her eyes, she takes in the sights of the city, trailing behind Nate and Ray for a moment.

This is where he lives, she thinks, heart pounding. This is where her _father_ lives on, the story of his life continuing.

The air tastes cold in her chest. She can't help but fear this entire visit is only a moratorium in a story destined to end tragically.

Refusing to consider it, she catches up to Nate and Ray, and together they mingle harmlessly with the members of the past, and do not dwell deeply on the consequences.

. o .

November 2, 2017

Standing in front of the mirror in the dressing room, Nora feels the weight of the world pressing down on her, coalescing into a single emotion: longing.

She misses Kenai.

She misses Jeven and Don and Jakiah and even Captain Thorne. She misses 4C's, Robers, Teller. She misses The Flash Museum. She misses the way November is supposed to feel: a harsh, unforgiving thing.

It cannot be November here, and yet it is. When she looks at the sky hopefully for snow, it does not oblige her. It is sunny, almost warm. Everything is cool and green and alive.

Everything is _wrong_.

Looking at herself in the mirror, dressed more appropriately for the earlier twenty-first century than the middle, Nora asks herself silently, _What are you doing here?_

The answer is easy, but the words will not come to her.

She looks away, unable to bear the silence, and smiles for Nate and Ray as if nothing ever happened as she emerges from the dressing room again.

. o .

November 2, 2017

Her dad isn't in town.

It's obvious by the disarray in his office at the CCPD, but Nora still finds herself deflating a little, frustrated at being denied another opportunity to meet him. _Why?_ she asks no one. _Why are you keeping him from me?_

As if on cue, she feels Its presence, standing near but not directly behind her as she looks at the old casework, long resolved in the future. "Don't do this to me," she says softly. "Don't keep me from him."

The Black Flash makes no sound. She turns to look at It and sees Its eyes glowing a soft gold. "You're afraid, aren't you?" she asks, bitterness at her disappointment rising in her throat. "You're scared that I'll love him."

The Black Flash says nothing. It makes no move. She can still hear Its heart crack silently in Its chest, golden eyes subdued. "It's not _fair_ ," she says, hating how choked up she sounds, "that I knew _you_ before I knew _him_."

Another crack. Still, the Black Flash holds Its ground, towering, menacing to some but utterly impotent before her. With a strangely muted sound, like it comes from the end of a very long tunnel, the Black Flash snaps Its fingers, and from around the door emerges a familiar golden form, rusty-gold, wagging tail, white around the muzzle.

Cody trots up to the Black Flash, settling near Its feet, fearless and companionable. He sniffs in her direction, golden eyes alighting after a moment, tongue lolling happily out of his mouth. She can't breathe. She honestly can't breathe for a moment, so overcome with longing for something she can no longer have that she rages aloud, "I don't want the dead!"

Cody disappears silently, but her anger does not. Storming across the floor, she says ruthlessly, "I don't want the dead. I want the living." Looking up into Its face, imploring, fearless, she adds, "Why is that so wrong? Why is it wrong for me to want _Kenai_ , to want _my father_ , to want the things I can actually _hold_ —" Her voice cracks. She looks away.

She closes her eyes, draws in a deep, fortifying breath, and turns back to It.

The Grim Reaper is gone.

. o .

November 2, 2017

She sits catatonic on the edge of the pullout couch, gazing listlessly at the far wall.

Nate and Ray are out at dinner, two old pals catching up in an era they actually lived through, while she sits and stares vacantly at the empty shadows. Her fingers clench and unclench. Her stomach growls traitorously. She wants to throw up. She wants to cry. She wants to hug her _dad_ , the one person who can give purpose to this painful, futile task, but even he is unreachable to her.

The tears arrive, and she fools herself into thinking that Cody lies at her feet, warmth radiating from his fur into her skin. It's an illusion – when she peers through her fingers, there is nothing there – and it serves only to crush salt into the wound. _We can't escape our dead,_ she thinks, flicking her watch – ignoring, again, the _low battery_ sign – and requesting softly, "Access Omni."

Omni, the universal companion, answers smoothly and immediately: "Omni here."

She wants to ask it everything – all the unspoken questions about this strange new world, about the series of events that led from this warm soft place to the cold unforgiving climate she knows – and yet her mouth runs dry, her mind blank. Patiently, Omni prompts, "I am here to help you."

It's a standard line, but she still presses her watch against her chest, desperate for anyone to _help_ , to make sense of the senseless world she lives in. "Thank you."

"You are welcome. I am here to help," Omni repeats kindly. "How may I assist you?"

"I …" Unable to form a single question, Nora requests, "Access Cody."

"Accessing Cody," Omni echoes.

Cody was old by the time Nora got an Omni watch – a remarkable device capable of measuring vitals, recording and answering messages, processing transactions, and, naturally, storing information – and so the holographic recording appears with the big lug in his twilight years, paunch well-defined, muzzle white and full, tail thwapping softly at his side. "Here's my sweet boy," Nora croons on camera. "Who's a good boy?"

Tail thwapping against the floor, Cody whuffs, a soft, deep sound. Already, she can hear the age in his breath; soon enough, it will cease. Still, there's no hint of grief in her tone as she replies in a cheery tone, "That's right, it's Cody! Cody's my coyote." Rising with apparent effort to his feet, Cody walks over to her, tail still wagging, even as she says, "Aw, buddy, you didn't have to get up – c'mere, big guy." She kneels to rub his furry shoulders gently. His tongue lolls out happily and, even through slightly wheezing breaths, she can almost hear his puppy joy. "That's my good boy."

The video – if it can be called that; the crisp, transparent outline of her pup in front of her is almost real enough to touch – ends. She swallows, looks up at the ceiling to prevent any tears from falling, and exhales deeply.

"Good boy," she repeats aloud, thinking again of that ghost, happily wagging his tail. A tear drips down her cheek; she does not wipe it away. "Good boy, Cody."

. o .

November 3, 2017

Nora's heart is ready to beat out of her chest as she looks at herself in the mirror. "Is this really going to work?" she asks Ray anxiously. "What if they know I'm not—"

"You are an outstanding waiter with a wealth of experience," Nate cuts in smoothly, holding an empty circular tray out to her. Taking it cautiously, she looks up at him despairingly. "You gotta believe it to be it, kid."

"I am an outstanding waiter with a wealth of experience," Nora repeats dutifully.

Grinning, Nate says, "Now you're getting it."

"We're a panic-button call away," Ray adds, subtly indicating the watch tucked under his suit. "Yours charged up?"

Nodding – she burned it to the ground just relieving that one scene, and in despair admitted that she hadn't brought any spares, let alone a charger; Ray's boy-scout preparedness to the rescue – she asks, "Where will you two go?"

"Here. There. Anywhere," Nate says with a casual wave. "We won't be part of the main festivities this time around – not that we were the first time – just because we're not our sparkling thirty-year-old selves anymore."

" _I_ sparkle," Ray says, flashing a winning smile.

Nate snorts, looking around the room at the pre-wedding setup. "Okay. This is it. You ready?"

Nora wants to shake her head, curl up into a ball, and cry. Instead, she says cheekily, "Absolutely."

"Terrific. All you have to do is help a little with the setup – looks like the speedsters already beat you to most of it, bless them – and then put those fancy tall drinks on the tray and carry them around. The flavors are on the bottles. If anyone asks, you're just another friend of the family." Clapping Ray on the shoulder, he adds, "Okay, I think that's it for us. We don't wanna be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, if you catch my drift."

"Think our younger selves are up to no good yet?" Ray asks fondly.

Nate snorts. "Sure, they're living it up – we'll meet you at the after-party," Nate adds, saluting Nora with an empty glass. "One panic-button call away."

Nora nods, looking down at her outfit – indistinguishable from the other uniforms – and then back up at her uncles, already leaving. It's not a moment too soon – from a side door, Nana Cecile enters the room.

It takes every ounce of willpower that Nora has not to launch herself into her arms in relief, a friendly face almost unbearably comforting. She tries to focus on the glasses, but she can't tune out that voice – that familiar, wonderful, been-with-her-forever voice. _This is fine,_ she tells herself, mindlessly rearranging the three glasses on the tray. _Everything is fine._

Time – never a cooperative substance – flies. It seems like Nora looks up and the church is full; people she knows, people she's never met, all intermingling and laughing, carefree. They don't know who she is – the only two people who do have decidedly made themselves scarce, to avoid causing any snafus with the timeline – but she knows who most of them are. It's a strange feeling, to be in a room full of friends and family who don't recognize her.

 _Just stay calm,_ she tells herself, surprised at how steady her hands are as she glides around the room, offering glasses almost exclusively to people she doesn't know. It's easier to keep her cool without the complication of worrying about exposure.

 _Just stay calm._

It's getting a little crowded, and she's beginning to wonder if Nate's playful speculation that her dad might not appear will actually manifest, when – she turns, and sees a young man in a tux, looking around, observing more than mingling. He's not even thirty yet – his face is softer than the photos will reveal in the article, eyes more alive and expressive than any photo could hope to capture.

She can almost _see_ his Speed aura, a soft golden glow. A familiar golden glow.

Stunned beyond words, yet strangely calm for the fact that the reality that has haunted her for years has _arrived_ , she gently wends her way through the other waiters, approaching him. He doesn't recognize her, doesn't turn with the sudden beaming smile she imagines he shares with friends and family. _I am family_. She wants to say it, so badly she can barely hold the secret to her chest as she finally, finally speaks to him.

"Sparkling?"

It almost makes her laugh – of all the words, of all the questions she could ask her father _in the flesh_ – but she maintains her composure as he flusters momentarily, thrown. It's reassuring. It keeps her calm. She's terrified that she might melt into the floor if he was somehow composed, too, in this incredible, impossible moment.

They talk inanely about the wine and the day and the festivities and she wants to memorize it all, every moment of mundane conversation, but she forgets, forgets, forgets until at last she remembers to wish him good luck because _I have to do that much, I have to say something meaningful_ except it comes out as "don't forget to say 'I do,'" which in retrospect is a strange thing to say and has Nate and Ray braying with laughter later.

Still, when she forces herself to let him go, to leave without touching him – _don't touch_ – she manages to get out of sight before Flashing off.

Collapsing against a tree in a woods far removed from the city, she huddles on her knees, still dressed in her waitress attire, tugging at the cloying collar. She tries to process it, the fact that it _happened_ , that she _met him_ , and it didn't matter that she couldn't say she loved him or hug him or explain that she wanted to meet him since the day she knew he existed.

She _met_ him.

She met her flesh-and-blood father.

Her heart is full, but her eyes water, and she finds herself sobbing into her hands for no reason, no reason at all.

A long time passes before the tears dry, before the emotions settle out into equilibrium once more. She needs to go, to find purpose in this time so she can return to her own, but she cannot move from her huddle.

The leaves do not crunch with Its weight, but she still feels It settle beside her. For a moment, she is so enormously tempted to embrace the warmth, the comfort, the contact that she knows exists in that great wide Somewhere that she almost lunges for It. Almost. Instead, she draws in a shuddering breath. She looks out at the trees around her. And finally, she turns to face It.

Sitting with Its legs extended outwardly, It looks serene. It has a hand on Lady's head, gently. She has her chin on Its knee, content. The scene is so idyllic that Nora knows she can find it forever, that she will never lose the afterimage it leaves on her soul. She feels her shoulders relax. She feels the forgiveness radiating from It in waves. Warm, golden, invisible waves.

 _I love you._

 _I love you._

 _I love you._

It's like a heartbeat, and she closes her eyes and absorbs it. She doesn't need to open them to know that It remains with her. It always remains with her.

 _I'm here. I'm there. I'm everywhere._

Loss is permanent, she realizes; but so, too, is love.

Opening her eyes, she looks and finds It with Lady, Its own eyes shut, head resting against the tree. It is rare repose – she has never seen It with Its eyes closed for more than an instant – and she stares wonderingly at It, the peaceful, approachable, unassuming grave-marker.

Letting her own breaths slow down to stillness, she lets a hand slide across the grass, its reality blending into the unreality of the Speed Force as all feeling drops away but for the warm, heavy feel of Its clawed hand curling harmlessly around hers.

They sit like that for centuries, and when she allows her own eyes to rest, she remembers the laughter, the joy, the sadness and trust that permeated every hour of every day spent with It.

"I'm lucky," she says softly. "I'm lucky because of all the possibilities in this life and this world – I get to know you."

Gently, earnestly, the Black Flash squeezes her hand.

 _No matter what happens,_ It promises, in that great, ethereal, Otherness It possesses, _I will always love you_.

Resting her head on Its shoulder, she squeezes Its hand back. "I love you," she says, matching Its quiet. "You're ... you're the one who raised me. Who gave me hope and strength and forgiveness. Who loved me." Insistently, she repeats, "You were, and are, and always will be my father."

She feels the Black Flash inhale, like It could absorb all pain in the world with that singular breath, before exhaling, a deep, relaxed, happy thing.

No words pass between them; no words need to be said.

Their love has always been unspoken.

. o .

November 4, 2017

Nate and Ray hug her goodbye.

For the first time in the whole adventure Nora feels energized at the thought of being alone in the Universe, a vestige from another time cast into an unfamiliar world. They caution her, warning her not to get too comfortable, to remember where she came from and who she is – but she knows, in a strange way, that she won't be leaving this era any time soon.

She won't be returning home, either, and it shatters her to know that the world will keep turning without her to help it. She might go forth to a new time, but she sees the world as it was, and the world she will find if she dares to go forward again, and they are not the same. They never will be.

 _It's time to live a new life_ , she thinks, watching the Waverider vanish.

There's a warmth in her soul, a determination, a grit that wasn't there before she left.

. o .

May 22, 2018

It takes her a while to figure it all out.

She finds ways to earn money by performing small miracles: construction projects that would take months take mere hours in her capable hands. She rescues people on the sides, and she rescues The Flash when the time comes. He would survive the satellite – she knows he would to fulfill the prophecy of her time – but he wouldn't be the same: a physically shattered version of his former self, vulnerable to the Reverse Flash when the time came.

This way, she hopes, she offers him a fighting chance. She offers her time a fighting chance at a new history.

And she hopes, hopes beyond reason allows her to, that maybe someday it will all be all right.

When she knocks on her parents' door, there is no fear in her chest. Conviction alone arises.

She can do this.

Taking a breath, she closes her eyes, imagining the future ahead of her – the Black Flash waiting for her, always, when she needs It – and finds readiness in her soul.

No matter what happens, she thinks, knocking on the door –

She will always have her father.

And that is enough.


End file.
